Laments of a Neovian Barista
by dearjenna
Summary: This is a column/series written from the perspective of a sarcastic Xweetok named Caroline who works as a barista of a cafe in Neovia. The series is to be submitted to The Neopian Times, and posting here is a trial run for how well the first few chapters might do in the publication. (TNT/others: My Neopets name is vulpesaparecium. You can Neomail for verification.)


**Author's Note:** This is a series/column I intend to submit to _The Neopian Times_ as just another way to stretch my Fanfiction legs elsewhere, and get some more writing practice in. Any way, I hope you enjoy this story. Please leave reviews, so I know. Having that feedback will make me feel like I'm not wasting my time here.

With that said, _I am submitting this to ._ If you want confirmation that it is me, my Neopets username is **vulpesaparecium**. If you don't believe me, Neomail that account and I will confirm this. All Neopets and _Neopets_-related material is canon and copyright of and TheNeopetsTeam.

(The above statement is mostly a disclaimer for TNT than it is for you all.)

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><p><em>This is a regular column, written by a Xweetok named Caroline, submitted to <em>The Neopian Times_ about her life as a Neovian barista and the interesting things she sees._

_~*.-.*~_

Dear readers,

I'm not sure what part of me has chosen to write this. Perhaps it's the irony that my customers will never see it despite their avid subscriptions to _The Neopian Times_, or my need to just express myself creatively, but here I am hoping that you will care just a small bit about a young Xweetok working her way through life on a small income and the interesting things I see. Maybe my stories will make you laugh. Maybe I won't interest you at all. But the least I can do is write.

Once you're in Neovia, you never truly leave. Perhaps it is some sort of Oasis effect—it has a paradisiacal pull that you can't resist. It's different, it's feisty. Whatever it is, most days I just want out.

The hipsters always come into the café here with their chic scarves, plaid anything and the latest issue of 'The Neopian Times' tucked under their arms or wings. Some attempt to look like locals and carry in with them copies of _The Neovian Chronicle_, but we all know better. These hipsters sit down in groups or alone in a corner and open up the newspaper in front of them as if to say, "Look at how well informed I am!" Yet, they hardly read the news bursting off of the pages in AP style vigor, dying to educate. Instead, I see some just skip straight to the comics. I know because I've memorized the publication's layout. It's always in the same place, near the middle, surrounded by ads for Usul nail varnish and coupons for the Tiki Tour.

I imagine that the journalists with their ears to the ground never wanted this: for their work to go amiss by poseurs of intellect pandering to a generation that only cares for their vanity. Then again, perhaps I have had too much coffee this morning to see beyond my cynical nose.

That's what I do, my unfortunate life's calling, is as a barista at a small, niche café in one of the strangest, hidden places of all of Neopia. Neovia is dark and drab and possesses an allure that I have yet to discern for myself. To be honest, I hardly remember how I ended up here years ago, but here I have remained. Neovia is more than it used to be, but it's still not like the finer shops of the now-grounded Faerieland. I never wanted to spend my youth working as a barista. I wanted to be a writer. I used to write stories all the time, but when life got busy and more stressful and the economy demanded I live off of wages instead of hanging out by the Money Tree, I chose this. It was easy to apply for and my boss didn't seem quite as bad and overbearing as he actually is.

But—despite my cynicism—the job pays, the customers aren't horrible and the caffeine keeps me going.

Occasionally, the hipsters—likely from the east side of Neopia Central—will put down their papers to discuss walking over to the Neovia Printing Press, but they never do. Talking about it is just as good, I guess. They do this every day. I can almost set my watch by it. I'm sure they get just as much stimulation staring at comic panels as they do window-shopping around bookstores and pretending to know more about an author than someone who is actually in the store reading the copies sold there.

The cold front sweeping half of Neopia had hit the Haunted Woods hard recently. Even the gypsies in the camp nearest to the Haunted Woods' main attractions were held up in a lodge, hiding from the cold. The wind looked brutal, and each time someone opened the door to the café, I was terrified to have to step out in it later.

The evening was young and I had just finished adding a few more ice cubes to one traveling Polarchuck's ice blended mocha coffee, when two strange figures entered the café—a few customers dared to look, but I had no choice. One was a Kougra with a scar that ran across his right eye. It looked like the source wound had run deep, and it was a bit painful to look at. The Kougra walked in, looking stern, with the hood of his worn, black coat overcasting much else of his features. The Kougra seemed as if he didn't want to be trifled with, so I didn't bother selling him on some of our usual fodder about how delicious our overly-priced heart lattes are. (They aren't. They never were.) Instead, I just asked, "Hello, what can I get for you today?"

My lack of marketing wasn't lost on my floor manager, though. The over-zealous Gelert glared at me, as if to say, "Mention our specials." As if I'd risk agitating the beast on the other side of the counter. We may be near the Haunted Woods, but I still tip toe around shady characters—I know better.

The Kougra cleared his throat, and a raspy growl emitted from it as he said, "One dark tea for me, and an ultra strong coffee for my friend." That's when I noticed the other one, fur frazzled from wind and a life of weathering. He was the stoutest Kacheek I had ever seen, but he appeared even stronger in disposition than the Kougra.

"Gotcha," I said shortly, took the money from his paws, and gestured towards a table in the corner I thought might suit them. "I'll just bring it out to you."

Both orders were more peculiar than the typical fluff I was accustomed to serving, but easy enough to make. A black haze rose from the steaming hot mug of dark tea, and a cloud followed me as I made my way to the table. You would think both orders would be per usual on this side of the Haunted Woods, but most who frequent cafés are there for the atmosphere and something with a hint of pumpkin or whatever the seasonal, trendy fruit is.

"Thanks," mumbled the Kacheek. His voice wasn't as deep as his appearance led me to believe, but he, too, was wrapped in a black coat like his friend. No visible marring kept the Kacheek from taking off his hood indoors, however.

"Miss," I heard the Kougra say softly to me. "Have you seen a Shoyru around here recently?"

I didn't expect that question. _Any sugar?_ Sure. _More creamer, please?_ Maybe. _Where's the nearest graveyard to get rid of a body at?_ More plausible. But asking about a doe-eyed Shoyru? Nah.

"N-no," I said. "Now that you mention it, I haven't seen any Shoyru stop in for a while."

"Oh, leave the little Xweetok alone," the Kacheek scolded before taking a large gulp of his drink.

"I just want to be sure we get our package in time," the Kougra said.

I leaned in: "If you don't mind me asking, when are you supposed to expect him?"

"Near closing, Miss—"

"—Caroline," I corrected.

"Caroline," the Kougra echoed with a polite nod, blowing on his dark tea before taking a sip.

The Kacheek stared me up and down. "Well?"

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Why are you still standing here?"

"Oh! I didn't realize..."

"She's trying to help," the Kougra corrected.

"Don't get her involved!"

"Involved in what?"

I shouldn't have asked. I should have just continued my usual routine of people watching—mostly mocking—and coffee brewing. I received a look of warning from the Kacheek, so I decide to take my leave behind the counter once more.

Gary, my floor manager, was waiting for me. "Next time, tell them about our new bubble tea collection."

"We're a coffee shop, not a tea shop."

"We're a business, and you're holding up the line," he said, pointing behind me.

I looked up to see a few eager girlfriends chatting and pointing at the menu behind me—a cluster of Cybunnies. I imagined they'd all ask for heart and star lattes so they could gab about that, too. They perkily ordered and I unfortunately obliged. I even added some sprinkles hoping for a tip. Two of the coins I got were broken. _Great..._ I thought.

My eyes periodically moved back over to where the mysterious Kacheek and Kougra sat, huddled over their respective steaming mugs, whispering about something crude, I'm sure. What business they were in, and if Gary would want them here conducting it, I wouldn't get a chance to learn. The night ended with no show from the elusive Shoyru, but a handsome tip from the gruff men. "Thank you," they said, almost in unison, before heading out the door for the night.

I didn't manage to get their names and I felt myself suddenly regretting it.

I looked to Gary who shook his head and said, "Just when I think Neovia is getting boring, we get a couple of weirdos like that."

"We could use more weirdos around here," I said.

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><p><strong>AN: **Reviews, please.


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